


Yo Ho Sebastian

by Unknown



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Homophobia, I'm Sorry, I'm so sorry, M/M, Multi, Oh My God, Pirate AU, Torture, everything i know about pirates comes from POTC, i also don't know about homophobia in the 18th century, i don't know how to write happy things, just so you know, no really i am, there is no happy ending, what did i just do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown/pseuds/Unknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pirate's life isn't for every one. Neither is singing about it, for that matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yo Ho Sebastian

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD MY SUMMARY MAKES IT SEEM LIKE IT'S GONNA BE CUTE AND FUNNY BUT IT'S NOT.
> 
> Just like it says in the warnings, there is rape in here and sex (though not detailed porn schtuffs). There is torture and beatings. There is... god there is bad stuff in here. There is also major homophobia.   
> But there's also love, the kind that never dies. 
> 
> So.
> 
> A pirate AU based on the song Gay Pirates by Cosmo Jarvis. If you haven't listened to it, you need to because the song was my blueprint for this entire fic so the specifics will all make sense if you listen to it, please and thank you.
> 
> The title is from the song too. Ok. Let's see....Um, if you find anything else that's triggering, then um, yeah. Tell me please, please, please. THANKS!

Their ship is called _The Hunter_. She’s fast and fierce, as are her men. Their captain is Christopher Argent, nick-named Silver Arrow for his last name and his penchant for using arrows as opposed to a sword. Their mission is simple: pillage, plunder and loot, make their riches grow so they can retire as kings. Their track record is impeccable.

There is no room for error.

There is no room for love that is not of the pay-for-a-night persuasion.

There is no room for abnormality.

Abnormality being what First Mate Derek  ‘Alpha’ Hale feels in his chest every time he sees the new cabin boy ‘Stiles’ Stilinski running about the ship. He knows it’s wrong, how his chest gets tight and how that boyish face takes his breath away. But he stares and can’t stop, stares at those wide eyes and pink mouth open in an ‘o’. So he soldiers on and does what he needs to do.

He’s sure Second Mate Jackson ‘Kanima’ Whittemore knows. But Jackson keeps quiet for several reasons. The first, Derek knows, is that he is in favor with the captain. This is obvious ; he is First Mate after all. The second, Derek isn’t too sure about, but he thinks Jackson doesn’t know what to do with his information. Derek is sure that he’s never been in the situation before, doesn’t know what to think when  a man prefers another man’s hot, tight, puckering hole over a women’s slick, wet entrance; when a man prefers stubble over smooth cheeks; a flat, firm chest over swelling, soft breasts. No, Jackson doesn’t know what to do with that information, and neither do his cronies, Vernon Boyd, who prefers his last name to his first, and Isaac Lahey, who’s too young and new to have a pseudonym.

Derek hides it well, he thinks, tries not to make it obvious, and goes about his duties, Stiles ever in his mind. It doesn’t bother him much.

* * *

Until it does.

They’ve just conquered an enemy pirate vessel. The ship is theirs and will be sold for a good purse of gold. Derek is a hero in the sailors’ eyes and Argent bestows him with a gift of Spanish gold to proclaim the fact. But Derek doesn’t care. Stiles had been shot halfway through the battle and the young man is nowhere to be found. Argent mentions in passing that he’s down in the brig with Deaton, their surgeon, and once Derek perks to attention, the captain sends him down.

“If he’s dead, throw him overboard,” Argent says without a care. “If he lives, make sure he gets well. It’s a shame to have to replace such a fine cabin boy.” Argent grins, teeth perfect save for one silver-capped tooth.

Derek heads down with a nod and tries not to rush to the dank and smelling brig. In a cell at the end of the small space, Stiles lays amid rags and sopping wet blankets, shivering and pale. Deaton hovers over him, stitching the wound, and sighing whenever Stiles fidgets. He looks terrible. Derek feels a tug in the center of his chest at the thought that Stiles might very well die.

“Alpha,” Deaton says, working away without a care. “The Captain sent you, I suspect?”

Derek nods, leaning against the door. “To check on him - ”

“Or to toss his carcass should he fall into death,” Deaton says calmly. He’s not a cruel man; he’s just indifferent, Derek reminds himself.

“Am I?” Stiles asks weakly, licking ruby red lips that are raw from his biting them. “Am I _dying_?”

“Of course not,” Deaton admonishes. He finishes, tying off the thread he’s using to sew Stiles’ arm up and then he stands up, frowning. “A word, Hale?” Derek nods and they walk out of the brig, off to the side near the stairs leading up to the barracks. “He’s dying,” are the first words out of Deaton’s mouth.

“Not on my watch,” Derek snaps. There’s determination in his voice, and Derek is much too honorable to be a pirate. He blames it on his upbringing. He’d been raised by good parents in a small town in France when he’d been wooed by a mysterious older woman named Kate Argent. Later on, she’d led a hoard of pirates to his town and burned it down, his home and most of his family included. Derek had been sixteen and had hunted her down and slit her throat. He’d then joined Argent’s crew as Kate’s replacement. He’s been there for six years, making his way up the ranks, until now that he’s First Mate.

“That is to be seen,” Deaton says sagely and then nods. “I’ll have the captain relieve you of your duties for a week or two. That should give you enough time, if he lives through the night.” And with that, Deaton ascends the stairs.

Derek makes his way back to the cell, and Stiles is shivering, his shirtsleeve ripped open and drenched in blood. He sighs and goes about rearranging Stiles on the rags and blankets, making him the center in a nest of fabric.

“I feel like a bird,” Stiles says, then giggles and god, Stiles does not belong here. He’s not pirate material, period.

“What are you doing on a pirate ship?” Derek asks softly, a chuckle hidden in his voice. Mostly he’s concerned that Deaton is right and that Stiles is going to die.

Surprisingly, Stiles tells him exactly why he’s there. “My best friend Scott, he ran away with the captain’s daughter.” Derek blinks, astounded. He hadn’t even been aware the captain had a wife or a woman, never mind a daughter. “So, in order to spare them both, I sold him my services for ten years.” Stiles shrugs.

“That’s devotion,” Derek says, a bit in awe.

“That’s friendship,” Stiles counters. “Something I have a feeling you haven’t had much opportunity to have.” He looks at Derek for a moment before nodding. “Consider me a friend, then.”

Derek surprises himself by nodding as well. He stays silent for the rest of the night, making sure Stiles is breathing as dusk turns into dawn.

* * *

Stiles doesn’t die. Derek nurses him back to health in a few weeks and then it’s back to running errands and climbing obscene parts of the ship. Derek gets his duties back and Jackson has a dark look on his face the next time Derek sees him. He chooses not to dwell on it.

Stiles starts to talk to him though. At first, it’s a quick thank you before Derek heads to his hammock and it turns into Stiles telling Derek about the father he left behind and the friends he’ll miss. Derek softly confesses the sister and uncle that are living in poverty in that small town in France, the only survivors of a long dead family. One day, Derek swears to hi, he’ll leave the pirating life with his rightful share and take them away from the dirty streets of the town he left them in. Stiles listens and doesn’t speak. It’s the most fulfilling conversation Derek has ever had since signing onto the ship.

It becomes a custom for the two of them to take first watch and as the weeks turn into months, Derek  finds it increasingly harder to stay away, to not kiss Stiles’ lips until they’re bruised. He’s not even sure if Stiles even feels that way for him, for men. He can’t risk it. He just can’t. So Derek bites his tongue and grinds his teeth and pines from a distance.

Until he can’t.

Stiles has become a multifaceted character in the story of Derek’s life. Someone Derek can’t help but be drawn to and want. They have first watch, the moon brightly shining against the ocean. Shadows and moonlight illuminate and hide Stiles’ dace. He’s beautiful. Derek can’t stop himself from leaning over and kissing him full on the mouth for a moment before he pulls back with a horrified look on his face.

Stiles swallows hard and licks his lips before doing a quick 360 look about and then reeling Derek back in for another kiss. They stay locked in each other’s embrace, relief and affection among their emotions. Derek makes them separate when he knows there’s only 5 minutes until the next watch.

Stiles lets out a shuddery breath and then _smiles_. It’s like the sun has come out and Derek knows. He knows this is what love feels like and that he will do anything to keep it.

* * *

As cabin boy, Stiles has a small room, big enough for a bed only, and a small one at that. Derek is forced to sleep among the men; Argent is adamant that it builds camaraderie.

Derek and Stiles utilize the room to the best of their ability. A week after the kiss, Derek is almost run through by a British Commodore and Stiles drags him to the room in the aftermath, under the pretext of checking his wounds and swearing to keep the first mate alive. Instead, he sobs for an hour and the makes love to Derek until the morning, when a sharp knock on the door warns that he’s in for a whipping if he doesn’t get up right then and there.

Stiles’ blush is engraved in Derek’s mind for the next week before he gets his hands all over that tight, lithe body again. He does it right this time, though they both have to keep silent and Derek gets suspicious looks when he climbs into his hammock later than usual. It’s worth it. Between the stories of his past and his ambitions of the future, Derek is slowly passing his heart over to Stiles.

That’s alright with him.

* * *

It’s a year and a half since Stiles has been with Derek, two years since he has joined the crew. Derek makes up his mind on their watch one night.

“I’m going with you.” He says out of the blue. Stiles makes a face and Derek has to literally stop himself from kissing the look off of his face.

“Um, I’m not going anywhere. 8 years left, remember?” Stiles says with a laugh.

“Exactly,” Derek murmurs. “When you go, I’m going too.” He shrugs.

“I – what?” Stiles gasps. There’s excitement and uncertainty, as if he’s sure Derek’s bluffing. “ _Why_?” he asks softly.

The ship sways to and fro with the waves and besides the drunken man at the ship’s helm, they’re alone. Sounds of drunken laughter come up from the ship, their fellow pirates celebrating a kill well done. “I lo-”  Derek starts, but then stops. He can’t say those three words, not here when anyone could come and hear and then where would they be? Derek thinks of how Stiles makes him feel. Safe, loved, relieved, and relaxed. Hopeful. “It’s you,” he says. “You’re my land ahoy.”

He’s afraid Stiles won’t understand, but then his young face splits into a grin and he’s speechless. Derek knows he’s won.

* * *

Jackson definitely knows. And by the glares he gets from Boyd and Isaac, they certainly know as well. Derek is only privy to this information when he takes a swig of water one morning and coughs, spitting it out. It’s salty, not the fresh water they ration out carefully.

“I thought you were use to swallowing,” Jackson says calmly, eating a dry biscuit at the small wooden table in the mess quarters. “I thought _he_ was the spitter.”  The captain’s already gone from the mess, or else they wouldn’t dare do or say any of this. Derek knows this. He suddenly wants to takes his share of the riches they’ve accumulated over the years and leave. He’d rather be run through than live through what happens next. But Stiles. Stiles is bound here. And he’s nothing without the other man.

Jackson punches him first and when he falls, Boyd leaves his seat and kicks him for a moments, Derek thinks Isaac won’t help them beat him. But then Jackson hisses, “What if he touches you in the night?” and Isaac kicks him so hard he breaks his nose with a loud crack. He can’t help the yell that escapes his lips and then there are footsteps outside the mess and the three of them move away from him. Stiles bursts in and says, “The captain asked me to-” His eyes widen when he catches sight of Derek sprawled and bloody on the floor.

“Brawl,” Jackson says and then Stiles knows. Derek sees through bruised eyes the exact moment Stiles realizes the three of them know. He nods stiffly and leaves. Derek is stupidly relieved. If Stiles had tried to help him, they would have done worse to him. His stomach lurches at the thought. The second they touch him, Derek well slit their throats, easy. They know it too. So they’ll terrorize him instead.

Derek can live with that.

***

Stiles angrily patches him up that night. He’s muttering and cursing, and then his hands start to shake and Derek takes them in his own and squeezes. It’s reassuring he hopes. He knows it’s not quite enough, but it has to be for now.

They other men will stop. Eventually.

* * *

Derek has duties. Attending a flagging is one of them. He does as he’s told, watches Argent whip a sniveling idiot named Greenberg and then gets the crowd to disperse from the separate chamber they use for the beatings.

He doesn’t noticed he’s being attacked until the cat-o-nine-tails is ripping into his flesh and dragging cuts through them. His scream is muffled when Boyd stuffs a rag into his mouth. He hears Jackson snicker as Isaac rips the remains of his shirt from his body.

“I think Argent missed a name. No matter. I’ll pick up the slack, as is my duty,” Jackson says. His hand draws back and Derek looks away as the whip cracks across his skin. He moans against the gag. Tries to get away, but the other two men are stronger together than Derek is alone.

Jackson whops him and yells obscenities and all the while, Derek keeps the image of Stiles in his mind. He doesn’t let go and when Jackson’s had his fun, he drops the whips into a bucket of water and walks out, leaving Derek alone. The others follow Jackson out and a few moments later, Stiles is inside with Deaton. Derek’s back feels like flayed meat.

“Oh god,” Stiles says, the hysteria rising in his voice. “Oh my god, Derek. Derek!” Derek blearily looks at him. “Deaton _help_ him.”

Deaton does and simultaneously tries to get the names of his perpetrators. Derek won’t speak and when Deaton tries to ask Stiles, he won’t speak either. Derek can’t leave Stiles’ bed (which he so graciously offered up for Derek, Argent accepting on Derek’s behalf) for two weeks. Argent takes his frustration out on the crew, threatening those who did it generally, since no one is talking. Greenberg gets the tip of a sword for his troubles and the captain feels a bit better that someone paid, in the end.

Their third year is almost up. Almost. Derek can almost taste it. He tries not to seem too pathetic and beg God to make the next seven speed by without a problem. He knows he won’t be that lucky. Neither of them will be.

* * *

They go a year without another incident and Derek gets his hopes up. _The Hunter_ stands against a small Spanish armada and a Chinese schooner, coming out victorious on both instances. Argent ups Derek’s spoils and Derek hoards the majority of his pay. He’s saving for when he and Stiles are free.

It’s a night when he has no watch to keep. He’s sprawled on Stiles’ bed and they’re discussing plans of the future. Stiles is 20 as opposed to the 16 he was when they first met. Derek is 26.

“Let’s go far away,” Derek suggests. “America, maybe. Somewhere that the captain can’t follow us. That no one can follow us.” They’re spooned against each other, naked bodies pressed against one another, Stiles in his arms.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “New York. Or New Jersey,” he murmurs. “Somewhere by the ocean. I’ve become fond of it.”

Derek chuckles. “New York or New Jersey it is.” H e in hales the sweet scent of Stiles and relaxes into sleep. He’ll have to sneak back in a few hours, but that’s alright. For now, he can just be here.

* * *

They have five years left when it starts again. At first, it’s only Jackson that starts trying to feign solicitation from Derek. Derek figures he’s being a nuisance and got bored over the years, so he ignores it. But then Boyd slams him into a wall and tries to kiss him while simultaneously trying to force a hand down the front of his trousers. Derek almost breaks his nose getting him away. Isaac is more subtle, grabbing Derek’s crotch as he gets into his hammock. Derek breaks his wrist. Their molestations stopped being funny ages ago. In fact, they never were funny, not at all.

It comes to a head when the four of them somehow have first watch together. It’s all wrong of course and Derek only has enough time to curse their isolation when Boyd shoves him to the deck pinning his hands behind his back, forcing him to kneel. Isaac starts to snicker and then he’s forcing Derek’s mouth open, pressing the hinge of Derek’s jaw until it hurts too much to keep closed and his mouth pops open. Jackson starts to untie his trousers and that’s when Derek starts to panic. He tries to thrash and yell but Boyd and Isaac have too strong a hold on him.

Jackson’s cock hands out, flaccid and ugly, and he spits, “If you love cock so much, why don’t you just suck me, huh? Suck me like you suck that fucking bitch of a cabin boy.” Jackson forces his dick into Derek’s mouth, Derek gagging and trying to pull away, to bite down. He feels helpless and terrified, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He can’t do anything though. Boyd and Isaac prevent him from doing so.

Jackson fucks his reluctant mouth, until he comes, come smearing the side of Derek’s mouth, burning his throat. He’s disgusted, disgusted that it’s come to this, that it’s gotten this bad and far. And he’s afraid. Afraid they’ll touch Stiles now, that Stile won’t want to touch him because they’ve had their filthy hands all over him.

Derek doesn’t move much after they’ve left. He lays there and then vomits when he comes to himself. He wants to wash every inch of himself, inside and out, wants to die or throw himself overboard. Anything to make his skin stop crawling. He’s shaking and barely makes it to the room where Stiles sleeps. Stiles opens the door, rubbing sleepy eyes until he catches sight of the mess on Derek’s clothes and face, the bruises on his skin.

“Derek, holy shit,” and he makes to touch him but Derek flinches. He flinches because he can’t breathe for  a second, the thought of someone touching him again too much. It’s too much for him. Stiles looks worried. “What – what did they do?” and then he gently – gently – takes Derek’s hand and leads him to the bed.

Derek tells him. Halfway through he breaks down, but he finishes. By the end, Stiles is shaking and Derek is terrified that he’ll be right and Stiles won’t touch him anymore. He’s wrong, of course. Stiles holds him tight, pressing soft, unobtrusive kisses to his neck, smudges his fingers into Derek’s skin claiming what’s his, and washes the mess off of Derek’s body and face, changing him into different clothes and burning his others. They don’t make love and Stiles doesn’t initiate anything. And it makes Derek feel that much better, feel like he can move past it, will move past it. The first time is always the hardest, as they say.

“You need to go,” Stiles says softly, stroking his hair, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Hop off on the next port we make. They won’t touch me because I’m under Argent’s eye, and they won’t tell him because they like power over you. You can’t tell Argent because that’ll also get us killed. You need to leave because I don’t want them _touching you_ anymore. I don’t want them _near you_. I want to _kill_ them.”

Something heals inside of Derek that Jackson, Boyd and Isaac had broken. And he presses his forehead to Stiles’ collarbone. “No,” he says. “Five years. That’s all. I can survive. We both can.”

“I can’t stand it,” Stiles says, his voice breaking. “Stay with me tonight, at least. I don’t want you back there tonight.”

So Derek stays the next few nights and puts up with the whispers and murmurs. And he stays far away from Jackson, Boyd and Isaac.

* * *

It takes Derek a year of slowly working up with it to have real sex with Stiles again. When they do, its slow and sweet and long awaited. But Stiles had waited, and that’s all that mattered. He’d also made threats to Jackson and his cronies, accidentally chopping off one of Boyd’s fingers. He’d given it to Derek a few months before their big debut, and Derek had not been able to hide his smile.

“For now though, they count down the months and years. It’s all they can do.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, sweaty and sated, and comfortable for once in a very long while.

“For what?” Stiles asks, incredulous. Six years and Derek still gets turned on by the sound of his voice.

“The past year,” Derek whispers. “I want to love you good,” Derek says. “And it took me a while. So I’m sorry.”

Stiles turns in his arms and presses their foreheads together. “Never _ever_ apologize to me for that. _Ever_ ,” Stiles says. He kisses Derek like he’s strong, like he won’t break an Derek will always appreciate that.

* * *

They’ve got three years left. Just three and Derek’s getting on in age. Twenty nine isn’t young anymore. Either way, they’re almost free when the threats start.

“I’ll kill you,” Jackson says, “if you look at him again. And everything that’s happened to you so far is going to happen all over again.”

Derek thinks about it. He’s just helped ransack an East India Trading Company ship, taken all their goods and killed their captain. He’s got Stiles waiting for him in bed and he’s still been able to keep his secret from Captain Argent even after seven years. He doesn’t feel particularly threatened. He’s ready for it, if need be.

“Then so be it,” Derek says, without looking away. Jackson flinches. Derek feels a bit better.

He looks at Stiles an hour later and feels a seashell ping at the back of his neck. Derek picks it up and throws it back, the shell cutting Isaac’s cheek. Derek thinks that’s fitting, seeing as Isaac was the one who threw it anyway.

That night, he goes to his hammock only to find that it’s been pissed in. It smells strongly of urine and is drenched, and there’s a snicker that runs through the barracks.

“Run to your bitch,” Boyd says. “Your whore.” And Derek could. He’s sure that half the men know something is up and by leaving them all and going to Stiles, he’d prove it.

So instead, Derek sleeps on the floor. He bunks down and ighs in exhaustion and sleeps on the hard wood. It’s fine. Derek is used to it.

No one says a word and the next morning no one looks at him. They’ve misjudged him. Good, Derek thinks. It buys him a little more time.

* * *

“How do you do it?” Stiles asks him. Things have settled some, he thinks. It’s been another year and Jackson and the others have kept the horrid behavior to a minimum. Two more years and Stiles is free. Two more years and Derek goes with him. “After everything that’s happened to you because you stayed, how the hell in Davy Jones’ Locker do you do it?” It’s late. Derek’s nursing a wounded side, be he saved Captain Argent in a battle today, so it just proves that Chris knows how to pick his men.

“I would be under the sea,” Derek admits, again finding the words hard to say, but having to them anyway. “But you… you pull me above.”

Stiles is quiet. Eight years. Eight years together and Derek can still make him speechless. “I love you,” Stiles says softly. A promise. A fact. Derek appreciates the sentiment.

He can sympathize.

* * *

There’s glass in his boots. Derek leans over his hammock to put them on and a piece stabs him in the foot. He’s about to shake out his boot when Jackson catches him by the wrist and says, “No,”

“No,” Derek intones. He’d thought they’d gotten over themselves. Apparently not. “What do you mean _no_?”

“You wear the boots,” Jackson says nonchalantly, “or the whore pays for it.”

Derek’s stomach falls to his feet. Jackson drags him barefoot up the stairs to the poop-deck . Stiles is tying ropes, checking a few of the other mast-men’s to make sure none of them fall. Off to the left, Boyd mops the deck. Off to the right, Isaac mills about with a few new others, showing them the ropes.

Jackson whistles, nothing out of the ordinary on the ship. But at the whistle, both Boyd and Isaac look up and then their eyes dart to Stiles. Derek’s heart beat speeds up and Jackson laughs.

“Use the boots,” he says.

And Derek does.

***

Glass cuts into his feet all day, pieces embedding themselves in the flesh of his soles. He stops a small two man mutiny in the boots and by the time his watch it over, Derek’s boots are blood stained, inside and out. He collapses onto Stiles’ bed and whines, “Get them off.” It takes Stiles but a second to yank the offending footwear from his poor feet. He makes a choked off noise and says, “Don’t – Jesus don’t move.” Stiles comes back with a pair of crude, metal tweezers and picks out the glass before stitching up the bigger lacerations on his soles. He bandages Derek’s feet with clean rags and then sits on the bed beside him.

“They need to stop,” Stile says. “We need to stop them.”

“No,” Derek replies. “We need to keep our heads down. We’re so close.”

Stiles doesn’t argue with that. Instead he says, “Why’d you do it? Why do you listen to them?”

“They _threatened_ you,” Derek snaps. “What don’t you _understand_  about that? The second they threaten you, I will do whatever they ask. They can beat me, whip me, threaten me, _rape_ me. They can destroy me but by bit so long as they don’t touch _you_.” Derek flips onto his back and sits up, watching Stiles’ eyes go wide.

“That’s – that’s not healthy. Or okay, my god,” Stiles says. He lays in bed with Derek, carefully tangling their legs together.

“I know,” Derek says softly. “I can’t help it though.” Derek sighs. “We deserve much better than we’ve had.”

Stiles nods against him. “Agreed.” Silence. And then: “Two years, then?”

Derek gets comfortable, already dreading tomorrow’s workload on injured feet. Instead, he thinks of Stiles, of opening a tavern in some no-name town on the American main-land, and having a house far off in the woods, where no one could find them. Far away from the ocean, though he knows Stiles would never allow them to be _too_ far.

“Yeah,” Derek says, holding onto that image. “Two years.”

* * *

There’s a hanging on the ship.

A young man of twenty-six, a pirate aboard _The Hunter_ for five years that went by the name Danny Mahealani. Most of the men called him Dan or Heavenly Moonlight as a joke. But now, he danced he gallows jig, swaying in the light afternoon breeze.

Mahealani, it is later said, had been found consorting with a male at their last port. The captain had waited for their departure to set an example of him to the men.

“Unnatural,” Argent says, spitting afterward. He shakes his head in disgust, his blue eyes glinting hard and sharp in the sunlight. “Not on my ship. Sleep with all the whores of Tortuga and Hispaniola if you must. Fuck every courtesan of Paris and ever German slut. But men are for killing, not skewering with your cocks.” He looks every one of them in the eye and they all look back.

Later on, Derek will pull Stiles into an embrace in a secluded corner of the brig as the younger man, the same age as Mahealani, shakes in fear. They’ve only got a year left and they’re so close, they can almost taste it. Later on, Jackson will look down at his boots, remembering the one night Danny had begged him for his first year on the ship, the one night on land that Jackson had given him, that had spurred him to start making Derek’s life a living hell again. He blames it on the grog. He knows it wasn’t. Later on, Boyd will think of the blond whore, Erica, he left behind on Hispaniola and Isaac won’t think of anything at all.

Later on, Chris Argent will curse Peter Hale and curse Kate for failing in her mission to kill the man that he believes poisoned his mind, the man who wormed his way into Chris’s heart and his into Chris’s trousers. He’ll curse her for burning down a house without that man in it, and then he’ll thank her for bringing him Derek Hale, the best seaman he’s ever met, none the wiser.

Later, a storm will rage and batter the ship with waves from all sides, and Danny Mahealani’s body will sway in the wind. No one will cut it down, and it will be swept out at sea.

* * *

Freedom. Up to the day, Stiles has completed his ten years. Argent gives him the choice to either get off next port or stay on as an official crew member. Stiles chooses the former. He’s no longer the long limbed, gangly young man he was when he first set foot aboard _The Hunter_. He’s tall and lithe, muscle jumping up from his skin in the unlikeliest of places. He’s tanned and his face and body are speckled with freckles and moles, marks from the sun. He’s strong and sea weathered and tired. He just wants to go home.

The next stop is Port Royale in the Caribbean, and Stiles agrees to get off there. Derek agrees to get off with him there and informs the captain that he’d like his last pay as well, seeing as he’s going to be leaving too. Family, he says. And a loss of taste for the seafaring life. Argent is nothing if fair and grants him official leave, as well as his pay. Derek fights a smile the entire time.

But they were never meant for a happy ending.

It’s their last day before they reach the port. Derek is in Stiles’ room, fucking him one last time on the ship, for old times’ sake when the door opens and Chris Argent walks in, head down looking at a map. He usually consults Stiles on this type of thing and had wanted one more token of knowledge and advice before the ex-cabin boy was to be sent off.

And now he’s just walked in on Derek with his cock deep inside of Stiles, mid-thrust, both of them bare-ass naked in sweat-soaked sheets.

It’s a mess. Jackson and his cronies are called and Stiles and Derek are pulled away from each other, clothing thrown at them. Derek tries to speak, but Argent slaps him across the mouth and Stiles yells.

“ _Overboard_!” he yells. “I want them overboard as soon as the rest of the men are up! Whittemore, Lahey! Get them out of my sight. Boyd, wake up the crew.” And then he’s gone.

Derek is dragged down the hall by Jackson and tossed into a room while Stiles is dragged by the hair into another room. There’s screaming and slaps, and Derek yells and thrashes as Jackson ties him up.

“Told you it would happen,” Jackson snarks, but there’s an edge to his tone, like even _he’d_ never thought it would happen. “Told you. No room for you in the world. Not right, just not right.”

“Shut up!” Derek yells and bites him, taking a chunk of flesh from his arm. Jackson screams and punches him in the face, and the last thing Derek thinks of before he’s consumed by blackness is that he hopes they haven’t tied Stiles up as tight as Jackson’s tied him up. The circulation to his wrists is cut off and his heart aches for Stiles. He just aches for him.

Derek is awakened by a cold shock of water to the face. He’s on the main deck, the crew looking at him in horror. Stiles is bruised and bloodied beside him, slouched over and on his knees as well. The captain is going on about them, about them being animals, about how his vessel was a killing vessel, not one riddled with abominations. Boyd and Isaac help him, throwing in their knowledge, but Jackson just stands behind them in stony silence.

Stiles is shaking beside him, terrified, unprepared. They’d made it. Ten years they’d made it and now this. It’s all gone because of this.

“I’m yours, you know,” Derek whispers  to him and Jackson shifts, because he can hear them, and Derek doesn’t care. Stiles has to know. He has to. “I’ll love you still in hell.” Stiles breaks out in a sob and nods, unable to do much else.

Then Jackson is yanking them up under the arm at Argent’s request, and the captain spits at them. “Disgusting,” he intones. “To think I trusted you.”

“Peter mentioned you,” Derek says, to spite him, because he’s no stranger to that particular tale, and Argent punches him so hard that he’s propelled backwards. No one asks and Jackson merely stands Derek back up as Stiles seethes, tears drying on his cheeks.

“Burn in hell,” Stiles says to him, and Argent laughs.

“That’s where you’ll be going. Burning in the darkest, fiery depths of Davy Jones' Locker,” the captain intones.

Stiles just stares. "ThankGod I'm a Christian then." And Derek has to smile in spite of himself, though Jackson just kicks him when he does.

The captain backhands Stiles, and Derek lurches forward, not able to get far. And then Argent nods to Jackson. "Toss them.”

The ocean is deep and vast. Derek and Stiles are bound at their wrists and ankles, the knots so tight that they won’t be able to move. They’ll drown and they both know it.

‘Love you’, Stiles mouths and then Jackson shoves him off the side of the ship and he lands into the ocean with a splash, silent but for a small whimper in the end.

“Yo ho, Stiles,” Derek sings softly, fear and loss and agony grappling in his chest. Jackson stands him on the edge and then pushes him in and Derek flails in the water for a moment before slipping under the waves, unable to keep himself afloat. He holds his breath for a while as he sinks, panicking and squirming and trying and tiring himself out until he sees something floating in his peripheral.

He twists and gasps, precious air bubbles  escaping his mouth. There, in front of him, slowly moving up, is Stiles. His skin looks waxy and pale, and his eyelids are bruised, blood sticking to the side of his head and making the water murky and red. He must have slammed into the side of the ship as he was pushed out. He’s dead.

Stiles is dead and Derek is fighting for an existence that he doesn’t want to have.

So he stops.

Derek opens his mouth and his next breath is liquid, flooding his lungs and suffocating him. His body tries to fight, but Derek resists, eyes wide open on that beautiful dead body slowly floating away from him, empty of all life, of anything that Derek had ever loved. His chest gets heavy, and there’s pressure everywhere and Derek slowly fades away.

And Derek thinks for the last time, _We deserved much better than we’ve -_  

**Author's Note:**

> Again, like I said, if anything else is triggering to you, please tell me! I'm not an expert on homophobia in the 18th century with like, pirates and stuff. But. But.   
> Still.  
> The song. Listen to it. Gay Pirates by Cosmo Jarvis. And yes, for those of you who care, I'll be finishing You Can Run Away With Me (Anytime You Want) this week. I just had all the plot bunnies for this and sad things are like, my favorite.
> 
> I'm sorry for that by the way. I'd rather ask for forgiveness than permission, anyways.


End file.
